


cut and fucking paste

by crimsonclad



Series: c+p [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-02
Updated: 2011-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:18:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonclad/pseuds/crimsonclad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"ack the mindmeld gave me feeeeeeelings"</p>
            </blockquote>





	cut and fucking paste

**Author's Note:**

> So, helpwess and I were having an extremely serious discussion about characterization in the new Star Trek. It went something like this:
> 
> Kirk (me): YO SPOCK WASSUP  
> BITCHES, RITE??  
> Spock (her): "Good day to you as well, captain."
> 
> Originally found here: http://crimsonclad.livejournal.com/129855.html

'Dear Ambassador Spock,' Jim writes, 'The new Spock thinks I am a total asshole and that sucks.'

It is another letter that he probably isn't going to send, but he likes the idea. He likes to think that maybe Ambassador Spock would give him some arcane clue as to how he can make his own Spock stop treating him like a coworker and more like, say, the best and truest friend in the universe. Unfortunately, he's pretty sure that clue would be something along the lines of spending years bonding under the extreme conditions of combat-- and that's not the remedy he's looking for here.

He deletes everything but the salutation, and blathers on about how he hopes the work at the colony is going well. He'll ask about what he should be doing in the next letter.

And maybe he'll ask about the wet dreams, if he's feeling really brave.

**

"This is bullshit," the Captain spits out. "What's next, a fucking salt-craving shapeshifter who's in love with Bones?"

Spock turns to look at him, baffled. "I beg your pardon?" These oddly specific outbursts have become a trademark of James Kirk over the past several months. It is utterly peculiar. "Captain, I believe our opponents are preparing their secondary attack on our defenses," Spock says, ignoring the puzzling tightness around the Captain's mouth.

"Yeah, okay. Phasers ready," Kirk says, resigned. Resigned to what, Spock has been unable to ascertain.

**

It's just rough, is all. He goes to bed at a reasonable hour, dreams all night about soulbonding and mindmelding true love shenanigans, then wakes up every morning to the realization that none of it is his own life. He likes his life, he does-- but he's pretty sure the Ambassador had not intended to turn him into a frustrated monogamist loser in the momentary span of their little information session.

Well, he hopes that hadn't been the intention.

So he wakes up in a super mood every morning, then realizes he's still living his own life, and not the one his cave friend had shown to him. He's not eating his heart out, exactly-- it isn't like he has to hide in the turbolift for a daily crying jag or anything. He just kind of misses something he's never actually had, and makes jokes that Spock never gets.

Still, he's hardly going to tell anyone about it-- and he's not the kind of asshole to demand results his timeline has not produced of its own volition. He quietly makes sure that Uhura and Spock have similar duty schedules, hopes those two crazy kids can make it work. After all, if they stay together, then it's almost certain that he won't have to fight Spock to the death at pon farr o'clock, and that would be awesome. "The less fighting to the point of death, the better," he says to himself, deciding it makes a nice motto. Not the most illuminating of mottoes, perhaps, but nice and serviceable.

"You and Spock seem to be getting along better," Bones says, suspicious. "Is he drugging you?"

Jim grins.

**

It all gets fucked up on the tentacle planet, when Jim gets knocked unconscious and Spock has to read his mind to find out where the vine repellents can be located. They get through the mission just fine (as long as strangled-yet-again-but-at-least-it-was-a-plant-instead-of-his-bff-this-time counts as just fine), but back on the ship, Spock corners him in his quarters. Jim would like to congratulate himself on his ability to see how pissed off Spock is, but given that Ensign Roberts had 'eeped' and scampered off down the hall at the sight of Spock's allegedly impassive face, Jim isn't going to pat himself on the back too hard.

"I demand an explanation," Spock says.

"Um," Jim answers. "Well, I asked Rand to pick up in here a little, but she got kind of huffy and said her advanced degree in personnel management made her a bit overqualified--"

"I am not referring to the-- admittedly staggering-- number of discarded clothing items scattered around your chambers. Why did you never inform me of-- of what you know about me?" Spock doesn't get flustered too often, or vague, so Jim reluctantly guesses that he's talking about the potentially creepy erotic dreams he's been having for, oh, six months.

"Hey, not about you! Exactly! Most of that is about...you know, the other you. Grandpa you. And it isn't me, anyway, it's the dead long lost me who was exactly like me in every way." Jim has a feeling his impassioned monologue is slightly lacking, based on Spock's nonplussed expression. "Look, the mindmeld thing is complicated, okay? So sure, we were all true love destiny and shit before Nero stuck his nose in. It doesn't matter now. I didn't want to bother you. No big deal!"

Spock sighs very very quietly, which for him is pretty similar to a full blown hissy on anyone else. "I find your explanation to be vastly unsatisfying."

Jim sits down on his bed, shrugging. "Look, I didn't see any reason to let you know about the whole thing. Nothing you can do."

"Captain--"

Jim grins. "Seriously, what are you going to do? Un-meld me? Throw alien princesses into my bedroom in the hopes that I can't resist? Tell Uhura that you're sorry, but even though you can't stand me it turns out that your older self couldn't help playing intergalactic time-traveling space yenta?"

Spock's shoulders become marginally less stiff. "Well. I--"

"You're impressed I know the word 'yenta', admit it."

"Slightly," Spock admits.

"Look," Jim starts, then rolls his eyes. "I mean, it isn't like we don't all have one million what ifs cropping up every fucking day. The Kelvin, your planet, all of our friendships and families and whatever-- it's all fucked up. Right? I can hardly use the other world as a roadmap. We'll all go insane pretty fast if I try to."

Spock nods. "There is some justice to what you say."

"Seriously. Did you know the other me was obsessed with classic literature? Try picturing _that_ before you worry about our mutual destiny."

**

Spock is working on the antimatter reconfiguration statistics when Kirk bursts into the lab, sauntering over to his console.

"So I'm guessing it wouldn't be the greatest idea to, you know, create a singularity-wormhole thing, go back in time and beam Edith Keeler onboard so that the two of us could double date with our girlfriends? Since you and I aren't hooking up anytime soon."

Spock blinks.

Jim nods. "Right, good point. Besides, can you imagine having sex with someone named _Edith_?" He wanders off, fiddling with an Andorian finger puzzle.

Spock returns to his calculations. The Captain has saved his life twelve times so far, and the lives of everyone on the ship nine. He has also insisted on several "mixers" for the sake of morale, instituted a file-sharing program that uses an obscene amount of the computer's memory ("you're just pissed that Uhura sided with me on needing more entertainment options, admit it") and declared that Larry is "the hottest motherfucker on the ship, shut up Scotty, it's true". They are currently headed for a diplomatic mission that will almost certainly be an unmitigated disaster.

Spock is, against all logic and judgment, not entirely dreading the coming future.


End file.
